


In Purrfect Harmony

by kali_asleep



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Bad Jokes, Celebrities, F/M, Fame, Fluff, Lame references, Music, Pop Star AU, Romance, Secret Identities, Slow Burn, Swearing, family pressure, making up things about the music industry, popstar au, puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5790340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/pseuds/kali_asleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Miraculous Ladybug Pop Star AU] In all of her years at Agreste Records, fashion consultant Marinette Dupain-Cheng has never been pushed outside of her comfort zone. But that was before Gabriel Agreste called her into his conference room and offered her a life-changing decision: remain stuck in her day-to-day, or take on the challenge of turning his son into a pop sensation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DARE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Proseandsongs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proseandsongs/gifts), [panda013 (Amiria_Raven)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amiria_Raven/gifts), [outsidethecavern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outsidethecavern/gifts).



> Well, I've done it now. I promised myself that I wouldn't, but here it is: yet another multi-chaptered mess. After writing out the ideas in my head for the Pop Star AU, I just couldn't not write it, and I've been overwhelmed by how many people have contributed their amazing ideas, art, and headcanons to this thing already! 
> 
> THE POST THAT STARTED IT ALL: http://brettanomycroft.tumblr.com/post/137559407609/miraculous-ladybug-pop-star-au

There’s a rhythm to the work. It’s in the hushed shimmy of silk unfurled from garment bags. It’s in the click of hangers paged through like chapters in a book. It’s in the hot buzz of stage lights casting rainbows on scuffed floors.

There’s a rhythm to the work and it’s the clip of heels and the swell of voices. It’s the gasp of a pin pricked too far through a seam and the yelped regret and the sideline titters that follow.

There’s a rhythm to the work: the flashing of sequins, the hitching of dresses, the crisp snip of scissors eating up stitches like dreams, the half-step of a warming voice knocked off key by a shirt to the face.

There’s rhythm, and bobbins, double-sided tape, tinny falsetto over speakers, and shouting, lots of shouting to the beat of pounding feet and the world around her breathes as a waltz: _Mar-i-nette, Mar-i-nette, Mar-i-nette -_

Marinette-

“Marinette! Earth to Marinette! He-lloooo!”

Blinking, Marinette looks up. Chloé looks down with a sneer.

“It’s expensive for them to make calls to the Moon, Marinette, so you’d better pick up.”

The fluorescent pink vinyl skirt Marinette had been sewing Chloé into reflects a warped version of her confused face. She opens her mouth to ask what Chloé meant, only to feel the shift of metal between her lips; Marinette bites down and smacks her lips together tightly to keep the pins she’d been holding onto from sliding into her throat, or worse - dropping onto Chloé. As such, the question escapes Marinette only as a muffled, “Whmmmma?”

“ _Nathalie_ has been calling for you for like, the last 60 seconds. You should probably go if you like this job,” Chloé says. Her eyes light up in delicious glee as Marinette swallows a curse and almost swallows a needle. 

Marinette had been so focused on preparing Chloé’s piece for the first day of filming that everything around her turned to white noise, but now as she whipped the last few stitches into the cloth edge connecting the vinyl skirt panels, she could hear quite clearly the agitated shouts for her. Chloé, of course, had done nothing to help, or indicate that Marinette’s mouthful of sharp objects was keeping her from responding. The opposing sides of the skirt melded into one, Marinette gave the skirt a sharp tug to test, and she was off across the studio at a jog. With one hand she waved towards where Nathalie Sancoeur stood, waiting in the middle of a jostling crowd, and with the other she collected pins and needles as she spit them out. Marinette came to a stop and shoved her tools in her pocket, where she knew she’d regret them later.

“Sorry,” she wheezed, “I’m so sorry, I was just finishing up Chloé’s outfit for the video.”

It was impossible to tell which was more unfortunate: Nathalie’s last name, or the fact that she often lived up to it. Her dispassionate gaze settled on Marinette. She sniffed, then looked down at the tablet in her hand.

“Mr. Agreste is waiting for you in the small conference room,” Nathalie said, “You’re late.”

And with that, Nathalie turns and begins wending her way back through the bustle of bodies making up the production crew, interns, dancers, electricians, and anyone else there to make a music video. Marinette doesn’t catch up with Nathalie until they were out of the sound stage and halfway down the plushly carpeted hallway leading back to the main building.

“Wait, I didn’t have a meeting with Mr. Agreste on my schedule this morning,” Marinette says, “I checked my email this morning, and before I went to the sound stage.”

A chill passes over her body as Nathalie gives her a sidelong glance. To miss a meeting with Mr. Agreste was a cardinal sin, one Marinette wasn’t sure she would live through. The nervous thud of her heart fell in time with the thump of Marinette’s boots as she followed Nathalie to the conference room. Whatever this was, it could hardly be good - the last time she’d been requested to meet with Mr. Agreste, she’d been given _Chloé_. 

“That’s because there was no email sent out, Ms. Dupain-Cheng.”

Marinette lurches to a stop. Nathalie keeps going.

“But Mr. Agreste _never_ holds a meeting without scheduling one first.”

“There are plenty of things Mr. Agreste _never_ does,” Nathalie replies cryptically.

“Wh-”

“I can assure you though, he _never_ likes to be kept waiting.”

She recognizes a command when she hears one, and quickens her step to catch back up. Marinette shoves her hands into the pockets of her overalls to keep from picking at her nails or falling into some other fidgety habit. As they walk, Marinette flips through the last few days: what had she done wrong? Chloé had complained about her skirt not being very comfortable, and while _she_ was the one who had insisted on the vinyl, Marinette had adjusted it, and the starlet seemed as content as she could ever get. A few evenings before, the boys from Blackslide had threatened to refuse to go on stage at a local show because ‘their pants looked too floofy, like some kind of pansy shit’ - Marinette had to take a cab all the way across town just to coax the three of them into putting the pants on to see that they did not, in fact, look like ‘pansy shit’ and were indeed quite with the times. But all of those issues she’d managed to fix, even if it was at the last second, and neither of them should have wound up on Gabriel Agreste’s radar. 

Possibilities were still zinging through her mind as Nathalie came to a stop outside a nondescript white door. There was no fanfare, no grandiosity, nothing besides a simple plastic placard bearing the words ‘SMALL CONF’ - nothing to indicate to the outside world that just beyond sat one of the music industry’s most influential figures. Nathalie’s eyes flick to Marinette at her audible gulp. 

“If you would, Ms. Dupain-Cheng.” Nathalie swings open the door.

The thing about Gabriel Agreste was that he could dominate a room without even trying. Marinette had run into other record execs before - she’d been hauled out to VH1 event last Spring to keep Chloe from slipping out of the lace and Swarovski concoction Marinette had dreamed up - and every single one seemed to be in a constant race to outshine all of the others. They were boisterous, flashy, decadent, and braggadocious, and as ridiculous as all of the words that could be used to describe them. 

Not so with Agreste. The man was classic bespoke suits and leather dress shoes, a fashionably practical haircut and a voice that needed not rise above others to be heard. When Gabriel Agreste spoke, everyone listened.

Everyone in the small conference is listening now too. Even if they hear Marinette’s entrance, the handful of people circled around the table know better than to look away. The seats around the table are mostly empty, but that helps her very little. Should she sit? Stand? She freezes at the door.

Gabriel looks up, and all of the other heads follow.

“Ah, Marinette. Please, take a seat.”

His words are perfectly composed and courteous, and Marinette has never felt so intimidated in her life. The presence of familiar faces scarcely helps; Marinette is too focused on not losing her lunch to ponder why Alya and Nino are two of three people, excluding Gabriel, sat at the table. With a slow nod, Marinette shuffles to the unoccupied seat at Alya’s left. Alya shoots her a tight smile and shakes her head a fraction at Marinette’s inquisitive look. Rather than reassure her, it makes Marinette even more certain that she's about to lose her job.

“Now that everyone is here, we can properly get started,” Gabriel says. He folds his hands neatly over a stack of sealed manila envelopes. 

“I’ll get straight to it. We have just signed a new artist at Agreste Records, and I would like to propose that the three of you work as a team to ensure their success.”

The three rear back as one, looking from Gabriel to each other and back again. Alya shoots Marinette a muted frown, whereas Nino does nothing to temper the confusion on his face.

“With all due respect, du- Mr. Agreste,” Nino begins, “That’s not what-”

Gabriel cuts him off with a look. Silence regained, he continues. 

“I understand that assigning a team such as yours to a new artist is highly unusual,” he says, echoing what each of them was surely thinking. “Typically artists are matched with a producer-” Gabriel nods at Nino, “And _their_ team of musicians and technicians.” The pale blue of Agreste’s attention slides to Marinette and Alya. “As for publicists and designers, they tends to be brought in on an as-needed basis.”

Marinette glances at Alya. Ever-anxious for a scoop, Alya bristles with curiosity; she rolls a pen back and forth between her hands under the table, waiting. Despite the reassurance that she likely wasn’t losing her job, Marinette reciprocates Alya’s nerves, leg jigging. 

“This, however, is a _special exception_. And this special exception requires both coordination and discretion.”

“And when will we be meeting this _special exception_?” Alya asks. 

Nino and Marinette stiffen. With only five of them in the room - the other, the bland VP of Agreste Records - it’s impossible for either of them to shush or reprimand Alya without being noticed. Marinette burns a hole into the table with her eyes, unable to look at Gabriel or her soon-to-be-dearly-departed best friend. 

Of all things, Gabriel chuckles. Marinette discreetly pinches the skin on the underside of her wrist, but she doesn’t wake up. 

“They will be meeting with you tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Renaud will give you the details,” he says, nodding to the VP and sliding over the folders.

“While you’ll find that my written instructions are much more detailed, it boils down to this: Nino, you will be responsible for recording, producing, mixing, and mastering. Any outside musicians or technicians you bring into the studio to work with our artists will need to be screened, by me, first - even if they’re already part of the company. Understood?”

To say Nino looks like he’s been hit by a truck would be an understatement. He nods, pulls off his ever-constant baseball cap, and props his head in his hands. Only once has Marinette ever been in the recording booth - during job orientation on her first day - but Nino has told her plenty of horror stories about being understaffed on a production day. Now, he’s not just going to be understaffed - if Gabriel is serious, Nino _is_ the production day staff. 

“Alya,” Gabriel continues, “Publicity, obviously. You’ll be doing the initial write-ups for our artist, coordinating with the major music blogs, getting singles out to the stations, managing social media, and booking shows. Once things get rolling you may be able to outsource some of the booking and singles, but all social media accounts for our artist are yours and yours _only_.”

Alya’s mouth opens to speak- to protest -to _anything_ , but nothing comes out. Managing the online accounts of a single artist was taxing enough on its own. Most artists had a full-time social media manager, and two or three other people arranging everything else. 

Marinette knows what’s coming next. She manages a dry swallow and fists her hands in her lap to keep from reacting when Gabriel’s gaze finally shifts to her. Given the tasks set upon Alya and Nino, Marinette may be better off fired.

“And Marinette. Style consultant. When our artist decides on their image, you will create it. All of it.”

A nebulous job is a universe worse than a laundry list. Undefined tasks mean no limits, no breaking points, no end to the expectations. Chloé alone takes Marinette, a hair and makeup specialist, and two other designers to satisfy. Marinette gives Gabriel a quick nod and contemplates the merits of a resignation letter.

“At this point I am certain you have questions and concerns. As it stands, given the nature of this artist acquisition, I will not be providing more information until you review the materials Renaud will give you and sign a non-disclosure agreement. If it hasn’t become clear already, the intricacies of this assignment are not for the public eye or ear. Silence will have to be kept.”

Marinette is rapidly growing more certain that she’s being recruited for some kind of secret agent special mission. _CEOs_ at _record companies_ don’t look at their staff like there is a bomb about to go off in the Queen’s palace, nor do they say things that could easily be interpreted as mafioso death threats. 

“A-and if we don’t? Sign the non-disclosure agreement?” Marinette peeps.

There’s no smile, only a perfunctory, “Then you will continue working as you are. But I would highly encourage your participation. If the Project is successful, it stands to be highly lucrative.”

“If?” Alya asks. 

Her question goes ignored. Gabriel looks down at his watch, a hulking platinum piece. “That is all I need from the three of you. Renaud?”

The VP passes a folder to each of them. Nino slides his into his bag, while Alya tears it open the instant it’s in her hands. Marinette simply clutches hers, trying to keep it from shaking, and stares at Gabriel Agreste. 

“Take the rest of the day. Review the information in the folders, look over the agreement, and make your decisions by the start of tomorrow morning. If you all agree, you’ll be a team, so you may discuss your choices with each other.”

The three stand with muttered thanks. Alya follows Nino out, Marinette trailing behind. She’s just about to close the door behind her, when she feels the weight of a stare on her shoulder. Marinette turns, but both Renaud and Gabriel are looking intently over some paperwork. Nonetheless, Marinette hears Gabriel, in the barest of voices, say, “Don’t let me down.”

…

Door to the conference room shut, the three speed down the hallway, stopping only once they turn the corner. 

Alya speaks first. “Drinks?”

“Drinks.”

“Drinks.”

…

They have to walk a good five blocks to find a place that isn't crawling with Agreste employees, and another three to fit Alya's tastes and Marinette’s wallet. The tapas bar is small but cozy, stuffed with high-top tables and an overabundance of red-shaded lamps. Nino orders table wine by the carafe and insists that he needs the whole thing to himself.

“Babes, this? This is ridiculous,” he groans. His head once again slides into his hands. “I knew I was selling my soul when I got the job here, but I didn't think I was going to have to give up my sanity too.”

Cradling her head in her arms, Marinette slumps over the table. Not even the arrival of the waiter with their drinks rouses her. 

“We don't even know what we’re getting into. I, for one, blame you,” she says, turning her head just enough to shoot Alya a glare.

“Whooa now, don't pin this on me, Miss ‘Alya-I’m-poor-and-starving-please-get-me-a-job’! Fast forward two years, it’s your own damn fault for being too good at what you do, girl.”

“ _Too_ good?” Marinette asks. She stirs a little at that, and even Nino looks up. 

“Yeah, too good, all of us. Now, I'm not saying I think this whole… Whatever it is… is a great idea, but I took a look at the non-disclosure agreement while we were in that meeting, and let me tell you, that is some heavy business,” she says.

Alya grabs her bag and pulls out the folder given to her. Carefully, she eases out a thick stack of stapled pages. A pen follows.

“Guys, I don't think we’d be having this conversation right now if Mr. Agreste didn't see something here.” 

In bold letters at the top reads “Non-Disclosure Agreement” followed by “Made Between: Agreste Records and Alya Cesaire”. Marinette and Nino lean in as Alya starts underlining items on the very first page.

“I mean, just look at this. Page one, and it says ‘Undersigned party agrees not to disclose the nature of The Project to any persons, group, or entity, including but not limited to: spouses, partners, children, parents, or any other relative. Discussion of even minor details related to The Project to unauthorized parties may result in dismissal from The Project.”

Nino’s low whistle mirrors the tension in Marinette’s chest. He adjusts his glasses, as if he’s not seeing through them properly. He squints, leans in, then sits back and crosses his arms over his chest.

“That is a lot of capitalization,” he finally says. 

“So we wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone about this? Not even our parents?” Marinette asks. 

Alya shakes her head. There’s a long draw on her drink before she says, “No one except for us.”

“And whoever this Project ends up being,” Nino adds. 

Quiet, they stare into their drinks. The words ‘THE PROJECT’ blare in Marinette’s head, red neon and storm sirens.

“I think I’m going to need something stronger,” she says with a sigh. 

…

The trio hops to a bar a few neighborhoods over, closer to Alya’s apartment. There’s strong talk between Nino and Marinette of crashing at Alya’s, and a vigorous rock-paper-scissors debate over who gets the couch. Alya dips between them, interrupting their showdown and stretching an arm around each of them.

“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes, “Marinette sleeps with me in _my_ bed.”

The girls giggle over Nino’s deep flush and mosey over to the bar to order. Pale pink overalls, a black crop top, and a bandana perched over pigtails, Marinette is immediately asked for ID, despite being nearly seven years beyond legal drinking age. Still, she swigs her gin with practiced ease and leaves Alya at the bar to flirt with the curly-haired bartender. 

“Whiskey and Coke,” Marinette says as she slides into the booth Nino had secured for them. She sets the drink in front of him and wrinkles her nose. “Too many more years in the music industry and you’ll go full American.”

“You’re just jealous that I’d look better in red, white, and blue jean cut-offs than you would,” he shoots back.

“You can have your jorts, I’ll take my dignity, thanks.”

They clink their glasses together and once again drink deep. Conversation ebbs between them, sinking into the lull of comfortable silence. Pulling a pen from her front pocket, Marinette doodles over her coaster. Nino taps a rhythm out on the side of his glass. Whenever she glances up, she catches Nino looking down the brim of his hat to Alya, still at the bar. Marinette swallows the reassurance bubbling in her chest. Alya won’t take the bartender home, but it’s not Marinette’s place to assume what Nino’s thinking. 

She finishes her drink. The tension has started easing from her shoulders. Still, Marinette knows she’ll feel the weight of the day as soon as she picks up her bag - and the folder inside. Pressure escapes her in a sigh.

“Me too,” Nino mutters. Straightening, he pulls off his hat to run a hand through his close-cut dark hair. He must be exhausted - there isn’t a time Marinette has seen Nino remove his hat, and Marinette has seen Nino passed out on her floor after a particularly exciting Agreste New Year’s Eve Party.

“Are you going to do it?” he asks. 

“Yes? No? Maybe? I have no clue. Absolutely none. It’s kind of impossible to make a decision when I have no idea what I’m walking into, and not being able to talk about it…” Marinette trails off. 

She jabs at the ice in her glass with the stirrer straw, weighing her options. In the two years that she’d been working at Agreste Records, Marinette had never heard of such a bizarre assignment, let alone been involved in one. Though, given the stack of legalese they’d been handed earlier that day, maybe there were all kinds of secret arrangements going on inside the company. 

“Tell me about it, dude,” Nino says, “I’ve had to do the whole NDA run around before with some of the other artists I’ve produced for, but they were never this specific. In the past it’s always been ‘Hey don’t be a dick and sell our beats to other companies, kay?’, not ‘so much as breathe a word of this to another soul or we’ll claim possession of your first born’. And the kind of work Agreste is hinting at is just…”

“Crazy?”

“Yeah, crazy.”

…

“I’m hoooome,” Marinette calls. She stumbles into the dark of her apartment and shuts the door behind her. The wedge of orange light from the outside hallway disappears, leaving her drenched in shadow. No one responds, as is always the case.

A few minutes are spent fumbling for light switches and a phone charger. Only once the warm glow of her two lamps spreads through the tiny apartment does Marinette toss herself and her bag down onto the couch. She should drag herself to the kitchen for water: her head whirls even as she sits in place. Instead, Marinette forces her heel of her boots against the arm of the couch until she’s able to loosen them enough to kick off. Good enough.

“What are you going to do, Marinette? This could be the biggest decision of your life…”

Marinette wheels her legs up in the air, stretching them as far up as she can. The motion makes her dizzy, in a good way, in a few-too-many-drinks-sending-dumb-Snapchats-to-Alya-and-  
Nino-on-the-metro kind of way. Ever inching towards adulthood, they’d called it a night early enough for each of them to get home safely, though Nino had insisted on walking Alya back to her apartment. She snickers at that; Nino would almost certainly sign on to The Project if Alya did. As for Alya, her curiosity was too insatiable. Once she parsed every line of the NDA, the contract, and the job details in the envelope, there was little chance that she would turn the opportunity down. 

Suddenly, the woozy tilting between her temples doesn’t feel so great. Alya had aspirations. Nino had motivations. Marinette sits up. 

The sink in the kitchen feels an eternity away, but Marinette still makes herself stand. She grabs one of the three or four glasses in the cupboard - this one a blue plastic cup with a duck-in-rain boots design too cute for her to deny. It doesn’t hold much water, but it makes her feel a little better. Leaning against the counter, Marinette takes in her cramped studio apartment. 

Most of the flat surfaces are covered in a forest’s worth of paper: open notebooks, sticky notes, coffee-ringed napkins, glossy pages torn from magazines, and more bills than she’d care to admit. No piece has gone untouched by Marinette’s pen. But beyond the panoply of paper products the room is spartan. She has a couch, and an end table bearing the dual burdens of dining room table and book shelf. The desk tucked under her lofted bed is the center of her world, the orthopedic, cushioned desk chair her nicest piece of furniture. Two potted african violets centered in one of her tiny windows bring a dot of color. 

At almost twenty-five, Marinette has an apartment, and a job, and a regular bill schedule. She has a bicycle that she bought with her first real paycheck and a sketchbook thick with designs likely to go unused. She has two loving parents who share her sense of complacent pride in her accomplishments. Each day drums along to the same beat. She could grow old this way. 

Alya had aspirations. Nino had motivations. Marinette had two potted african violets.

The corner of the manilla folder juts out of her bag. It takes her four steps to cross the apartment and yank it free. For the first time, Marinette unseals it.

“Crazy,” she mutters, “Crazy.”


	2. Foundation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette, Alya, and Nino meet 'The Project'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song used in this chapter is 'Foundation' by Years & Years. Both the song and the lead singer are the inspiration for Adrien's voice. I do not claim any rights to the song, nor am I making any form of profit off of its use. The incorporation of this song is purely for entertainment purposes.

Marinette would dress for battle, if she knew how. Instead, she settles on a black circle skirt and a black and white polka-dotted blouse with a Peter Pan collar. In her small bathroom she peers into her even smaller mirror and debates the merits of a crown braid over a bun. Mascara goes on; gloss is smoothed over lips and ultimately wiped away. She fails to choke down her breakfast.

The first time she leaves the apartment, she makes it down two flights of stairs before remembering she left her phone. The second time, it only takes one flight to notice she’s missing her purse. The third and final time, she throws a red asymmetrical blazer over her outfit and feels at least a smidge better. Without armor or weapon, she’d have to enter into the fray on her own terms… or at least the terms set out by Gabriel Agreste.

It’s not a long bike ride to Agreste Records from her apartment - she’d made certain of that when she rented there in the first place - but her heart still ricochets between her ribs as Marinette approaches the building. Her stomach clenches like she's taken a swift jab to the gut. The true miracle won't be making it through the day: it will be making it through the front door.

The lobby seems busier than usual for a Thursday morning. She tries not to let her gaze wander too much as she heads towards the doors to the left of the reception desk, but doesn't find much success. Is it the redhead in vibrant yellow tapping something out in her phone? The man with the straw-woven hat nestled low on his brow? Lord forbid it’s the older gentleman in suspenders toting a suspiciously accordion-shaped case.

“You’re good to go, Marinette.”

She whips around to see Rose buzz her in for what is likely the second time. Marinette dips her head in apology and waves as the gentle girl laughs. Perhaps it's not the first time Marinette has gotten distracted by visitors to the building - or their fashion choices. She pushes through the doors and crosses the long hallway that serves as Agreste Record’s central artery. 

Autographed photos, framed articles, and not a few gold and platinum records line the hall at even intervals. Foot traffic picks up where adjoining hallways intersect with the main; more than once Marinette pauses when another designer or a technician stops her to chat or ask about the lighting needed for highlighting some of Chloé’s recent, more complicated outfits. She smiles through each conversation and apologizes for how difficult it is to keep the glare from going crazy on Chloé’s vinyl skirt, but cuts her talk time short. Marinette has somewhere to be.

She’s heading to the back booths. The path takes her past her usual workspaces: the wide, brightly lit rainbow disguised as a room, packed full of bolts of fabric and materials and bustling designers; and the Main studio, where the label’s bigger artists film most of their music videos or promotional pieces. 

It was rare for a record company to have their own attached studio for video, as it was to have in-house design teams, cosmetologists, technical crews and publicists. Most other labels contracted with other groups when videos needed to be made, or hired designers for one or two projects where unique vision was necessary. Until last night, Marinette had thought that bringing so many diverse talents under the umbrella and building of Agreste Records was a show of brilliance on Gabriel's part; however, after sifting through the stack of legal documents for much of the early morning, her theories were proven not so. Gabriel Agreste is, as it turns out, a control freak. 

Knowing this, her pulse shouldn't be dancing a jittery two-step when Marinette spots the very man waiting outside of the booth she’d been directed to. Of course Mr. Agreste would want to know her decision without delay. 

“Good morning, Marinette,” Gabriel says. He holds a hand out. Marinette is already pulling the documents from her purse, and a moment later, she neatly passes them over to him.

“Good morning, Mr. Agreste,” she responds. 

She offers what she envisions to be a controlled, confident smile, but judging by the way Gabriel raises a single eyebrow, Marinette must not have been all that convincing. Nonetheless, he flips through the paperwork, nodding at each signature. Why Gabriel, and not a secretary, or a lawyer, was reviewing each page, Marinette chalked up to that need for authority. Nothing escaped him.

“You've made an excellent decision,” he finally says. A tinge of a smile shades his mouth. “Please, go on in, the rest of your team is waiting inside.”

Gabriel steps to one side and opens the door to the recording studio. 

“Thank you,” Marinette manages, entire body tense as she shuffles past him. 

The original studios for Agreste Records, known by everyone in the building as the back booths, were small in a way that toed the line between cozy and claustrophobic. Marinette had been surprised that morning to read that they would be meeting in one of the original rooms and not one of the larger, more updated studios built during the more recent expansion. That’s where Chloé always recorded, and given the gravity with which Marinette and the others had been presented this project, she’d assumed it would be the same now. 

Divided in two, much of the room was dedicated to sound mixing. Equipment filled up three-quarters of the space, leaving barely enough room for a worn couch and coffee table. Even knowing as little as she does about the recording process, it’s clear to Marinette that all of the hardware has been updated, perhaps for this project. Monitors and computer screens glow against the switches and dials of the control board, a dizzying array. Beyond the large glass window that takes up an entire wall of the mixing room waits the recording booth, wrapped in foam. The lights on that side are dimmed - all she can make out is the vague shape of a keyboard.

“You made it!” 

Alya grins at her from the couch and stands to smooth her skirt. Marinette can see the hesitation as Alya battles with wrapping her in a hug in front of their boss. Nino, lacking any such concerns, lets out a whoop of delight and half-tackles her. The black button-up shirt he wears is just as unusual as the smoothness of the cheek he presses to hers.

“We weren't sure if you were going to sign,” he whispers in her ear before pulling away. A little more loudly, he says, “This is going to be amazing.”

“Well then, I suppose I'll leave the three of you to it,” Gabriel says from the doorway.

Marinette turns awkwardly, Nino still half-wrapped around her. Agreste observes Nino’s antics with a level stare, yet Marinette can't help the feeling that he’s watching her most closely of all.

“Y-you won't be staying until the new artist arrives, Sir?” Marinette asks. She clasps her hands behind her back, hiding her nervous squirming since she can't seem to stifle it.

Perhaps it’s her nerves playing tricks on her, but the faint smile on Gabriel’s faces seems to fall flat. 

“I have other work to return to. He won't require my introduction.”

 _He?_. Marinette resists the urge to slump over. If they were working with Monsieur Accordion out there… 

“The phone in the corner has a direct line to my office. Should you have any concerns, don't hesitate to contact me.”

As one, Alya, Nino, and Marinette turn to stare at the innocuous beige phone at the end of the control board. Nino looks most awed by the simple device; _A direct line_ , he mouths.

Alya, as always, is the first to speak again. “Thank you, Mr. Agreste.”

He nods but says nothing else as he withdraws from the room and closes the door.

Immediately, Alya joins Nino in throwing her arms around Marinette and hugging them tightly. She does a little dance when she pulls away, and her hands come up to cup both sides of Marinette’s face. Marinette laughs.

“You seriously didn't think I'd say yes?” Marinette asks.

An apologetic look dawns on both faces. 

“Well, it’s a super huge change…” Alya starts.

“And you're already so good with the job you had going on, babe,” Nino picks up.

“But we just weren't sure…” Alya says, “If you'd be willing to take such a big risk.”

They don't falter at Marinette’s indignant huff, but neither of them seems pleased with themselves.

“You're kind of the play it safe type,” he finishes.

She balls her hands into fists and plants them on her hips.

“I am not! I totally take risks all of the time!”

“Like last night, when you called it quits early because it was a ‘work night’?” Alya says. She raises an eyebrow and mirrors Marinette as Nino snickers behind her. 

“Or like when you refused to let me give you driving lessons because ‘bikes are less dangerous’?” Nino adds.

“But that’s true!” Marinette protests. Red creeps up her cheeks. Excellent, now her coat matches the rest of her. “Being safe doesn’t mean I don’t-”

“What about when you refused to call that hot dancer from Chloé’s last video back because ‘he probably wasn’t a dangerous serial killer or anything but you never know!’’ 

Like a beast of prey Alya goes straight for the jugular with that one. Marinette attempts to choke out something about how _obsessed with knives_ that guy had been, but all she’s able to do is spit out some incoherent syllables. 

“O-okay, now that’s not fair!” she sputters. Marinette crosses the tiny room in an instant and impulsively leaps up onto the couch. No longer at a height disadvantage with the two, she scowls down at them. “I am brave and a risk-taker! I seize the day every day!” 

Doubled-over in laughter, her friends do little to alleviate the way her face burns. It’s good natured, she knows, but hits too close to home There’s a point there, buried in all of their happy hysterics.

“You two are the absolute WORST! See if I ever work with you!” she exclaims, exaggerating her pout to cover up the sting from their jabs.

“Am I interrupting something? Would you prefer I waited outside?”

The three of them freeze. 

Marinette’s back is to the door, but she can hear it creak and click firmly shut. Alya’s eyes widen, but her brows dip, confusion easy for Marinette to read. Nino ducks his head, face obscured by the brim of his hat. His neck flares red - now they match, too. Marinette is still atop the couch. The springs groan as her heels dig into the cushion for balance. If she’s lucky, lightning will strike her down right where she stands.

Of course, Marinette’s not lucky, but she is quite wobbly now that she’s trying to stand motionless. Her hands fly out as she attempts to regain her equilibrium. Falling off of the couch would be just about the only way this moment could get worse. 

A hand wraps around hers, steadying. She glimpses a thick silver ring and the top of a navy blue newsboy cap. It’s not the Accordion Man, which is even less reassuring. Now there’s no doubt who’s the fool in the room.

“You must be our _Special Exception_ ,” Alya says, recovering first. 

The hand around hers tightens, but Marinette is too embarrassed to protest.

“Is that what he’s calling me, then?” the voice under the cap says, flat. 

Nino looks up with an audible gasp. For the third time in less than twenty-four hours, Nino’s hat comes off. 

“Oh, man, _dude_ ,” he starts, stretching for his words, “Ah, no, bro, you’re _Adrien Agreste_.”

Adrien Agreste. _The_ Adrien Agreste. Her boss’ son. With a squeak, Marinette tugs her hand from his grasp and looks for a deep, comfortable hole to bury herself in. All she finds is a shocked Nino, a mortified Alya, and a man blocking her way off of the couch. He looks up at her. Marinette’s heart finds a new home in her mouth. 

His eyes are mint and honey; she’d drift in their cool depths if she could, if she dared. Beyond that, Adrien Agreste is miles of cheekbone and jawline. Marinette’s chest burns like she’s just covered that distance at a sprint. His plush lips part just a fraction. Neither of them speak. Marinette couldn’t, even if she wanted to: whatever mental process was involved in transforming words to speech vacated the moment she laid eyes on him. 

“Marinette. Get off of the couch.”

Alya’s flat voice breaks whatever has Marinette so transfixed - Adrien blinks and looks away from her. The couch creaks as she teeters from side to side, trying to dismount without breaking an ankle or bumping into Adrien. She shuffles to the side of the couch Adrien isn’t obstructing and tenderly steps down. The narrow point of her heel snags in the carpet, pitching her forward and off balance. For a long heartbeat, hot joy rushes up Marinette’s skin: this is how she dies, her embarrassment finally come to a close. Alya catches her by the arm just as Adrien’s hand wraps back around hers, both keeping her from a face full of coffee table. Her descent halts with a lurch. 

With all of the dignity and delicacy she can possibly muster, Marinette nods to Adrien, reclaims her hand, and immediately ducks behind Alya. Taller and broader than her, Alya blocks Marinette’s view of the stunning man in the room. Nino, Alya, and Adrien all stare each other down - or at least Marinette assumes so. She hardly dares to look. Marinette feels ostrich-like, tucked away behind Alya and pretending like she’s never existed and no one can see her.

“Well, ah, it seems like you all have the advantage since you already know who I am,” Adrien says. Unable to see him, Marinette’s mind paints a winning smile on her image of his face. It’s a good look, though it’s unquestionable that almost _any_ look could be a good look for him. On her way down from the couch, she’d caught a glimpse of the rest of his ensemble: trim, well-cut coat with a high collar, popped, in catalina blue to offset his cap; crisp white collared shirt underneath; jeans in a deeper gray. 

“Alya Cesaire,” Alya says, holding a hand out. The handshake is professional, as is the thin-lipped smile she offers, though not by much. Marinette tries to picture Adrien in a mustard yellow - it would look fine with his blonde hair, but his complexion is a little too fair. Maybe a rust orange instead- “Publicity and social media.”

“Thank goodness,” he says, “I’m a bit useless with anything more exciting than Facebook. It’s a pleasure.”

Blues suited him, that was obvious enough, but would those shades pop on a darker stage? Chloe had wrecked Marinette’s sense of what showed up well in a stadium with her need for neon. Biting her lip, Marinette eases out a bit from behind Alya to refresh her mental picture of Adrien. Still perfect. He turns to Nino.

“It’s Nino, right?” Adrien asks. Taken aback, Nino only nods in response.

“It’s the hat,” Adrien says, tapping an inch or two above his forehead, “I was around last year right after you finished producing for Blackslide, and they would not stop talking about ‘Nino with the hat’. Amazing album, the response they’ve had has been great. I heard you came up with the hook for ‘ _Niveau_ ’?”

Nino’s been in the industry long enough to keep his jaw from dropping, but he still stammers out a response somewhere between thrilled and abashed. “No, no way, it was mostly Max’s idea, I just worked it out with him…”

Adrien flaps a hand at him. His smile remains persistent. “Sure, of course.”

Marinette is almost certainly going to put Adrien in black. She can see it now, how the color would make his eyes pop more than they already do. It wouldn’t overwhelm him, either, an all black outfit. Should could probably find a tie, though, in a near-match to his eyes. Or socks? Both?

“Marinette-”

That’s _her_ name. Marinette slides back into focus to see Adrien staring at her expectantly, hand outstretched. There’s a waver to his smile, uncertain. She’s not sure how long she’s been spaced out. Red floods her face. Grabbing his hand, Marinette shakes it with zealous vigor.

“M-Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she says, “Style, uh, fashion consultant.”

The hesitation drains from Adrien’s face, replaced with someone more genuine. “I think I’ve seen you around, before.”

“A-ah, euh-” Marinette stumbles over her words, because she can’t let _There’s no way I’d forget ever seeing you_ get out, “I, ah, probably not, unless you spend any time around C-Chloé. I design her. I mean, make designs for her.”

He wrinkles his nose as soon as she says ‘Chloé’. Marinette wants to dress him even more than before. 

“Maybe not, then. Given your personal taste in clothing, I look forward to seeing what you can do.”

Less than five minutes ago, Adrien Agreste had walked in on Marinette berating her co-workers from the top of the couch. That he can say such a thing to her, now, with that level voice and warm expression, is overpowering enough to make her want to hide behind Alya again. 

“And that’s everyone,” Alya says. She steps in front of Marinette like it’s an impulse. “We’re your team.”

Then, clapping her hands together, Alya puts on her best put upon smile. 

“Alright then, show us what you’ve got!”

Even when cast in surprise, Adrien’s face is perfect. Swept up in the arch of his brow as Marinette is, it takes Nino’s exasperated sigh hitting her ear for Marinette to understand what Alya means. 

“Now?” Adrien asks.

“Yeah, now?” Nino echoes, voice decidedly flat. 

Her hands fly to her hips. Nino, well trained in Alya, starts backing over to the mixing board, but Adrien holds strong.

“Don't you want to, maybe, talk about what we’re going to be doing, or get to know each other a bit better? We just introduced ourselves.” How he manages to sound perfectly reasonable in the face of Alya the Unexpected is something Marinette hopes she’ll be able to learn from Adrien.

Marinette has no computer to attend or complicated dials to adjust, but she begins backing away as well - as much as she can in their closet of a studio. Anyone who has known Alya for more than five minutes quickly learns when she means business, and as Adrien’s eyes sweep over Nino and Marinette, it’s evident he’s starting to figure her out. 

“What a better way to get to know our new talent than to hear what he can do!” she says. 

Adrien slides his hands in his pockets and tilts his chin up. Combined with the high, raised collar of his jacket and the narrowed glint of his gaze, he cuts an imposing figure. Not to be outdone, Alya takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and holds her smile. To Marinette, it feels like their blatant peacocking lasts a lifetime, but a moment later, Adrien nods and starts pulling off his jacket and hat. He looks past Alya to Nino.

“Is the keyboard in there set up?” 

“Not sure,” Nino replies airily, jabbing at a few buttons, “ _Someone_ didn't give me any time to check and set things up.”

Nino doesn't dare glance in Alya’s direction, but she nonetheless shoots him a scowl. 

“Gimme a minute,” he continues, “And I'll go in and make sure everything’s hooked up.”

Waving a hand, Adrien tosses his jacket on the couch and swings open the door to the recording booth.

“Don't worry about it, I know how to get it going.” He stares at Alya, mild smile plastered on his face, and he continues. “I did, after all, grow up in these studios.”

Adrien slides through the door and shuts himself off in the recording booth. A moment later, the lights on the other side flicker on. There he is, polite smile perfectly in tact as he sends them a second wave and then busies himself with something around the keyboard. 

Still facing the window into the recording booth, Alya takes a mechanical step back, now in line with Marinette. Her smile is growing painful. 

“Nino, is the mic into the recording booth on?” she asks. Her lips barely move.

“Negative,” Nino says. He plugs an audio jack from the board into one of the laptops and taps something out. He’s a whirlwind along the board, hopping from one end to the other, making one thousand miniscule adjustments. “Want it to be?”

“No.”

Alya loops her arm in Marinette’s, spins them both around, and marches right over the the couch. Her smile drops only when they drop onto the cushions, no longer within sight of the recording booth. Tension crackles off of Alya in hot bursts. She drags a hand through her hair and pulls at a nonexistent tangle. 

“I am not letting some rich playboy tank my career,” Alya mutters. She balls her hands in her lap. “I’ve worked too hard for this company to be made a _mockery_ of when some pretty boy coasts in on his daddy’s coattails demanding to be made a pop star. Some _Special Exception_. Some freaking _project_.”

She nods along and rubs Alya’s arm, aiming for comfort. Not a single muscle in Alya’s body relaxes - if anything, she gets stiffer with every passing second. Neither of them can see into the other room, though Marinette is tempted to sit up a little and test if it’s possible to see Adrien from where they are. She thinks she glimpses the top of his head from one of the monitors on Nino’s board. Marinette’s heart is in the right place, but her head is wrapped up in gold and green, so it’s with little thought that Marinette hums and says, “He _is_ pretty.”

“Marinette!” Alya hisses, shoving her in the shoulder. Marinette flops over, landing half over the arm of the couch. “Traitor!” Alya continues, “This affects you too, in case you forgot. You’re not going to care an ounce how attractive Adrien Agreste is when you’re _on the streets and out of a job!_.”

“That’s unfair,” Marinette mumbles, “You don’t even know if he’s going to suck.” 

Crossing her arms over her chest, Marinette glares at Alya from the corner of her eye. Twice today Alya has called her out in the worst of ways. She’ll sulk about it, at least for the moment.

“Have you _seen_ him?” Alya asks, matching Marinette pout-for-pout, “This whole thing has got Paris Hilton syndrome written all over it. Daddy makes the big bucks, lets him do what he wants. Sure! Dance in a few videos! Music? Why not? Have a whole album!”

Alya twists around and buries her face in the couch with a groan. “What did I do to deserve this?” Alya says, voice muffled, “All I wanted to do was have a nice job, grow my career, get my name out. This was supposed to be it.”

“Babe, I say this with all of the love in my heart,” Nino says, not turning from the board, “But you _need to get a grip_. You are acting like a child, and that is _not_ cool. Marinette’s right. You’re being unfair and you need to give this guy a chance.”

More groaning from Alya. She shakes her head without lifting it from the couch. “This is my job - all of our jobs - on the line.”

“Do… do you think Mr. Agreste would want anyone on his label if they didn't have some kind of talent?” Marinette asks, “I read the same contract you did… it just doesn't seem… on.”

The stack of paperwork canvassing her tiny coffee table for most of the pre-dawn hours is a vision she won't soon forget. Perhaps she would have read more avariciously if she’d known what was waiting beyond the dry print-on-paper jargon. What Marinette could have projected on _The Project_. But that’s leagues beyond the point.

Alya’s muffled voice begins to rise into a whine, but Nino cuts her off sharply.

“I am more than willing to give a guy a chance if he can set up a booth on his own,” Nino says. He jabs a thumb in the direction of the other room. “And this guy just did.”

Sitting up, Marinette strains to peer over the mixing board and into the recording booth. The golden crown of Adrien’s head, crossed by a pair of headphones, is all that’s visible from her position. She’d stand to watch, but thinks it would just make Alya pout even more.

“Mic’s on,” Nino warns. He turns back to Alya with a stern look; she must feel rather than see it, given the gesture she sends back. Needing to compensate, Marinette sends him a double thumbs up. 

If Nino looks a pale as he slips on his headset, it goes forever unmentioned. He adjusts something on the board with ease and stretches to the laptop to press the bright red ‘START’ icon of the recording software.

“Alright, Mr. Agreste-”

“Adrien, please.” Adrien’s voice is amplified and piped into the room. The sound is crystal clear, better than anything Marinette has heard on the sound stage or working with Chloé. She resists the foolish impulse to glance over her shoulder and see if Adrien’s there. Surround sound, indeed.

“Yeah, my bad, Adrien. Sooo I guess you can hear me just fine then, ready to get started?”

“Sure. Anything you want to start with? A quick chorus, a cover to test out the system?” He doesn't finish with _and me_ , but the words still sit heavy in his voice.

“Play Free Bird!” Nino says, chuckling. 

Nino is in constant motion as he and Adrien talk, leveling the audio and making minute changes. The bro vibe doesn’t so much disappear as morph into something fluid, settling onto his skin with ease. Of all of the three, Adrien already knew Nino’s name. Marinette would hardly be surprised if Nino’s name hadn’t been the first on the list for this project. From the couch, Marinette feels like an afterthought.

Three long chords ring out from the other room, the opening to Free Bird on the keyboard. This time Marinette does stand up, and in enough time to see a teasing grin alight on Adrien’s face. On the other side of the glass, he raises his hands dramatically, poised to continue. Nino waves his arms and shakes his head, fighting off his own grin.

“Please, please, _no_ , I want to get out of here by midnight! Just give me whatever feels good, man, this is only round one.”

Adrien plucks a few notes on the keyboard in no particular order. His soft hum is audible over the microphone. It’s smooth but aimless, contemplative. 

“I’ve been playing around with something the last few days…” he finally says.

“We’re rolling, whenever you’re ready,” Nino says.

Marinette shuffles closer to the board, until she’s hovering behind Nino. He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. The tightness belies his nerves. This is it. The Project.

The notes are slow and sparse to start. Adrien gets a few bars in, stops, and frowns down at the keys. He says nothing, but shakes his head to himself. His shoulders rise and fall. The notes start again.

“ _There’s a scratch on your shoulder, crushes me like, crushes me like lead-_ ”

His voice is wind sweeping through an empty room. It’s threads of shadow cast through rain-streaked windows. It ripples across her skin, raising goosebumps and fine hairs. He closes his eyes.

“ _And I wanna get older_ ,” he continues, “ _All the things I want, I really shouldn’t get._ ”

It is, objectively, tenor. It is, subjectively, tenor trapped in a dream. Adrien has been singing for fifteen seconds, maybe less. His words weave through the skeleton of song he presses from the keyboard, filling the empty notes with a rising richness. 

“ _If I triumph, are you watching? Can you separate everything for me?_ ”

Alya is standing. Maybe she has been for a while. Nino’s hands hang at his side.

“ _You used to work me out but you never worked it out for me._ ”

Gabriel Agreste didn’t know what he was doing. Nowhere in that contract Marinette signed was there a line defining the terms of her heart rocketing to the peak of her throat. No worker’s comp for the weakness in her knees or the tightness in her chest. Nowhere in the sheaf of legal documents did it explicitly state that Marinette would be signing away every ounce of will or self-preservation. If Agreste records didn’t own her already, it would soon. 

Adrien’s voice strengthens as the chorus comes around a second time. He out the crescendo with his entire body, leaning that force into his hands on the keys. 

“ _And I was lying, I don’t really wanna be fine, it’s all over-_ ” 

At the peak, he draws in a hard breath and carries the song to its end.

“ _And there’s a scratch on your shoulder, it crushes me like, crushes me like lead. And I wanna get older, and all the things I want I really shouldn’t get…_ ”

It ends there, notes from the keyboard eventually winning out over the trailing breathiness of Adrien’s voice. And then, there is silence. 

Two minutes have passed. Marinette never wants them back. Adrien looks up from the keyboard with a smile that leaves her momentarily blinded. When she blinks away the spots, he’s putting up the headphones and flipping a switch on the keyboard. 

“Wow,” Nino breathes. The two others in the room nod in agreement. The only person who still seems capable of forming a full thought is the same one who has just blown the three of them away.

She watches, rooted to the spot, as Adrien crosses back into their world. Adrien’s grin is sheepish when Alya spins up to him and gives him a few solid thumps on the back, spouting praise the entire time. He escapes Alya only to be swooped up by Nino, all shoulder pats and fist bumps and, even once, a handshake. The delicate lift of his lips and faint flush prove he’s pleased with himself, if not embarrassed. Marinette holds eye contact for nearly three seconds before she has to glance away from the onslaught of _green_ he throws her way. She might not be able to look at him, but Marinette still lets a smile surface on her features. Doing reasonably well, she manages to avoid going redder than she already has.

“That was killer, dude!” Nino exclaims. He lets got of Adrien long enough to bustle over to the laptop and loop the recording back to the beginning. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Nino points to the screen, then to Adrien, then back to the screen. “Want to hear it?”

Alya interrupts whatever Adrien is about to say with a hurried, “I was wrong.”

Nino freezes. Marinette looks over. Even Adrien can’t fully school his expression out of surprise.

The sigh she heaves fills the entire room, all reluctant confession. “I was wrong,” she repeats, and it’s apparent from the way Adrien gives the slightest nod that she doesn’t have to explain. 

“You’re going to be famous,” Alya says, “ _We’re_ going to help make you famous. Adrien Agreste, you’re going to be a star.”

His smile twitches. With a chuckle, Adrien rubs the back of his neck.

“Thanks, yeah, that’s great. Except that it’s not Adrien Agreste you’re going to turn into a star.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000 thanks to all of the wonderful people who have supported the development of this fic! Hugs and kisses in particular go to outsidethecavern and arejayelle. Go check out the amazing fanart and covers they've made for this fic!
> 
> http://outsidethecavern.tumblr.com/post/137916156339/joined-the-overalls-club-but-the-masterminds-were
> 
> http://arejayelle.tumblr.com/post/137859244058/so-um-yeah-im-thinking-of-doing-a-comic-based
> 
> http://outsidethecavern.tumblr.com/post/137760224399/can-you-have-headcannons-on-the-headcannons-of
> 
> ALSO ALSO ALSO incredible doodles for the Pop Star AU in general!!! 
> 
> http://eternalravendreamer.tumblr.com/post/137847941801/part-1-of-probably-2-or-3-doodles-inspired-by

**Author's Note:**

> Song: DARE (feat Shaun Ryder) - The Gorillaz
> 
> Please feel free to stop by and chat, ask questions, or send your own ideas and headcanons for the popstar au!: brettanomycroft.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> One zillion thanks to everyone who has already contributed their amazing ideas on tumblr! I'll be giving individual credit to everyone in the chapters where their ideas come in, but shoutout to the following folks: vanilla107, panda013, proseandsongs, legademacinderheart, outsidethecavern, texmexchexmix, and markfluffyrock. Also shoutout to graycrayon, arejayelle, hellomekitty, and everyone else on tumblr who is awesome and lovely and have been super supportive of this!


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